Choices Are Sacrifices
by pfyre1
Summary: Sometimes you can reach for the brass ring…


Title: **Choice Are Sacrifices**

Notes: So while watching 3.08 'As You Were' [good gawd between Sharif and Matt in dress whites... Huge freakin' drool buckets were needed!] - I mentioned to my PiaP that I was wondering how long before we had some AU tags with Neal injured by Striker and his high tech bow and she made a comment or two and before I knew it the muse had perked up. Beta'd by Ozmandius, Beta-Reader Extraordinaire. She's my PiaP, my cheerleader, gives me a swift kick when necessary. She makes me sound so much more literate. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Spoilers: anything is game through 3.08 As You Were.

Summary: Sometimes you _can_ reach for the brass ring...

Feedback: Feedback is always welcomed. Flames will be ignored.

Disclaimer: White Collar and the characters mentioned herein are the creative properties of Jeff Eastin, Fox Television Studios. This fanfic was created and shared solely for the enjoyment of fellow White Collar fans. No copyright infringement intended. No monies made.

~0~

"Choices are sacrifices. Inevitably, it means giving up something that you want for something you want more."

~0~

When Neal was a child he believed in fairy tales. He envisioned himself as the brave young knight that saved the beautiful princess from a terrifying creature. He saw himself as the commander of a Mars expedition making a discovery that would change science's concept of the universe. He could be an undercover cop and help bring bad guys to justice. He dreamed of making the impossible Super Bowl winning end zone touchdown catch and riding the shoulders of his teammates as flashbulbs exploded and the crowds yelled and screamed. He concocted elaborate futures in which he made so much money that he could do anything; he would buy his mom a new house - one for every season; he would make certain his friends got the latest games, skateboards and bikes. He would run a foundation dedicated to saving the big cats around the world. He would fund an expedition to Mt. Everest, make the climb and stake his banner. And invariably there was a gorgeous, smart someone and they would meet, fall madly in love, marry and live happily ever after - the fairy tale ending.

Of course that was before he learned the truth about his 'hero' father.

Fate was definitely a fickle and sadistic bitch. Who would have ever thought that Neal Caffrey, ex-con, conman extraordinaire, would essentially **be** that undercover cop trying to save a man's life and bringing the bad guys to justice? Or at least he would be, if Peter and the rest of Blue Team could get their collective asses in here and rescue Jimmy Wilson.

He heard footsteps at the far end of the west corridor and held his breath.

"You're relieved. Striker's request. Come on." Neal could not help but smirk at Van Horn's pseudonym of 'Striker'. The man clearly had overcompensation issues.

"Yes, sir." Risking a quick look, he saw two men in black BDUs and flak vests heading away from him as they turned down another hallway.

"All right, the guard just left his post," Neal spoke into his wrist mic expecting a response from Peter. He tapped the earwig several times and heard only static. With no idea how long the guard would be gone, there was no time to waste. Glancing quickly up and down the corridor, he looked into '907' and saw Jimmy Wilson in cuffs and shackles looking a bit worse for wear. Kneeling, he pulled out his picks and was just inserting them into the lock when he felt something brush the underside of his arms and heard an ominous _thunk_ as he fell back on his ass.

"Picked a bad day to break into my world." Striker, looking coldly cruel, swiftly notched a second arrow and Neal realized the high tech bow had a green laser site as it centered on his chest. No way the white uniform tunic and the few wraps of elastic bandaging underneath his t-shirt would offer him any real protection.

He scuttled backwards on his hands and ass a few feet and then was up fast and running a random zig-zag down the corridor. With each stride, each breath, he anticipated the agony of an arrow hitting him between the shoulder blades. Again he felt the brush of a silent, but deadly, arrow as it just missed his shoulder and he threw himself into the top alcove of the stairway. Bouncing off the wall he took two then three steps down and risked a leap to the landing below.

Even bending his knees to take the impact, it was a jarring touchdown. But he kept his feet and managed three more steps before jumping to the bottom of the staircase. No time to wait for the elevator, he turned and made a crouching dash for the double doorway to his left. The handles refused to budge. The doors were locked tight. He rattled them and ducked down next to the stairs using their meager cover as protection.

"I gotta say, nothing beats the thrill of shooting at a live target." Striker was still above him on the stairs, no doubt with another arrow ready to fire. "Make your move, Commander."

Neal figured he had nothing to lose and he might just make it to the elevator. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered where the hell Peter and the rest of Blue Team were, even as he took off at a dead-run and launched himself at the elevator controls. Another arrow missed as he slapped the buttons and landed hard on the floor. His hip and side took the brunt of the impact even as he scrambled backward against the unresponsive elevator doors.

"Did I mention what this puppy can do at close range?" Striker, now in point-blank range, had a deadly bolt aimed at Neal's chest once again.

"How 'bout I take your word for it?" He was breathing hard and would have sworn he could feel the cold green laser bounce off the hand he held up in defense. Not that it would do much good; a bolt from a high tech compound bow would slice through his hand and into him with barely a pause.

Time froze and sped up as he heard the bow creak as Striker drew back and he almost did not hear Jones' command of "FBI! Lower your weapon. Now!" He held his breath waiting for Striker to take the shot, no matter the consequence.

And suddenly Peter was there with his gun on the man and Diana as well and the rest of the agents. Striker lowered the bow and Diana grabbed it, handing it to another agent as she cuffed the man. Jones kept his gun trained, finger on the trigger until Striker was secured.

"Radios are back online, Boss." Jones tapped his earwig.

"You okay?" He released his breath and blinked up at Peter. "Neal?"

"I'm fin-aahh!" Damn, his entire side hurt. When he shifted to get to his feet it felt like a hot poker had been inserted into his hip.

"What's wrong?" Immediately, Peter knelt beside him with a hand on his shoulder to keep him down.

"I-" He looked down at his left side and saw the ragged tear in the dress whites uniform tunic. "- must've landed wrong..."

"Is that blood?" Peter pulled the material aside and the crimson of the blood was a stark contrast against his white t-shirt and the stain was growing fast and included the trousers as well. "What the hell? Did he _shoot_ you with an arrow?"

"I-" Had he been hit? Neal frowned. He remembered running and then diving sideways for the elevator controls. It had hurt like hell when he landed on his hip. "I dunno. I guess?" Peter yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and used it to press hard on the wound. "Ahhh!"

"Call for a bus!" Peter batted his hands away and kept the pressure on. "Jones, go get Jimmy. Take Marcus with you."

"-Nine-oh-seven." He was suddenly so tired it was hard to think but he managed to tell them what room Wilson was in. "It's locked... My picks..." Hands were shifting him to lie flat on the cold floor.

"Don't worry about your picks." Neal blinked up at Peter and saw Diana as well.

"Boss, the EMTs are on their way up but the elevators are still locked down." She handed something to Peter. "Christy's always telling me we should have field dressings on us during these ops." The pressure was released and then back again with a vengeance. "She'll be pleased I took her advice and that it came in handy." The cold of the floor seeped into him and his back, shoulders and knees along with a myriad of other places that took a beating during his desperate scramble to save his life made themselves known. His bruises were going to have bruises.

He blinked and seemingly only moments later there was an EMT crouched beside to him. The next bit was a mix of pain and confusion as his clothes were cut away and a pressure bandage was applied to his side and held in place with tape and a compression bandage wrapped around his torso. An oxygen mask was followed by pressure on his arm as his blood pressure was checked. Everyone was talking and he couldn't concentrate on what anyone was saying. Blessedly he was wrapped in blankets as he was moved to a stretcher.

He lost the plot for a bit as he was strapped in and carried down the stairs.

It was like watching a poorly edited student film. He would blink and have missed out on a level of stairs. Another blink and there was a completely different floor number on the walls. Unfortunately, by the time they reached the ground floor the wooziness had worsened and nausea followed. "-I'm... gonna..." Something in his tone or maybe it was green-grey color of his face; the EMTs quickly set the stretcher down and tipped it to the side allowing him to retch on the lobby's marble floor.

There was a jumble of faces and jostling and abruptly he was in the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut just as Peter jumped in with him. It was hard to think, to hear, but he thought he heard Peter say something about "rodenticide". The rest was lost as he zoned out.

~0~

"Dammit!" Peter found himself on the wrong side of the doors as Neal was rushed into the treatment area. Even being listed as the ex-con's 'next-of-kin' did not gain him admittance.

"Sir?" He turned to find a young woman in purple scrubs holding a clipboard out to him. "Are you with-" she glanced at the paperwork, "Mr. Caffrey?"

"Yes, I'm Agent Burke, F.B.I.," he flashed his badge, realizing for the first time he was still wearing his flak vest and no jacket. "I'm Neal's next-of-kin-"

"Oh, good then you can fill in the paperwork." She pushed the clipboard into his hands and laid a ballpoint pen on top.

"But I need to-" He had already relayed to them what Jimmy Wilson had said when he came down to the floor where Neal had been cornered by Van Horn. The blood and bow were enough to prompt the man to immediately warn them.

It seemed Striker had gleefully shared stories about his exotic collection of weapons and that one of his latest additions had been 'steel-bladed arrows coated with toxin'. His chemical of choice had been one of the 'superwarfarin' substances most often used for rodent elimination in large-scale industrial situations, but when used on a human could easily lead to the victim dying from blood loss from even a minor wound. No quick killing poison for that sociopath; if his target was not immediately killed by a deadly bolt, he very much enjoyed the thought of them bleeding out.

"You need to fill those out," the young woman, Karen Conners, R.N. her badge named her, pushed him towards the waiting area. "I'll go check with Dr. Frankin on Mr. Caffrey's status and let you know what's happening."

"What's happening with Neal Caffrey?" Fifteen minutes later, he walked the finished forms over to the desk just as a doctor came through the doors.

"Come with me." Dr. Carole Frankin, thank god for name tags, took the clipboard and handed it to the nurse sitting at the desk and indicated Peter should follow. "It helped that you knew it was Diphenadione. We're still waiting for the analysis of the levels in his blood, but in the mean time he's been given Factor VIII." A quick glance in his direction and she continued, "It's a coagulant agent. We use it with hemophiliacs and anyone with similar issues."

The doctor pulled aside a curtain to reveal Neal unconscious with multiple IVs, attached to a heart monitor and lord knew how many other devices. "We had thought we might need to treat the wound in surgery, but after debriding the area we determined it could be handled here." Peter could see the layers of gauze taped to his side. "Mr. Caffrey's been in and out of consciousness. At the moment, his blood pressure is stable if a little lower than we'd prefer." She nudged Peter towards the chair at the bedside. "You may stay with him until they come to take him for a CT scan." The doctor adjusted something on one of the monitors. "It must have been a hell of a fight; he's pretty contused along with the laceration on his side. We just want to make certain there's no internal bleeding or other problems lurking."

"Okay." Peter found himself nodding as he sat down. "So he's going to be all right then?"

"No guarantees, but for the moment things look good." Frankin made some notations on a chart.

"Good, that's good." He sighed and glanced at his watch. Was it really only just after 1 PM? It felt like it should be late in the night.

"Someone will be by shortly to take him for his scans and then he's being admitted. They should have a room number for you by then." She made a final notation on the chart. "If anything changes, press the call button." She indicated the button hanging near the head of the bed. "I'll be back later to check on him once; we have the results of the scans and the blood work."

~0~

If earlier it had been a student film then this was like being trapped in an indie film with sometimes over-bright and other times too dimly lit out of focus scenes with a muffled soundtrack. His side hurt; pain pulsating in time with his heartbeat. His head... It felt like his brain was too big for his skull. It took a few moments to get enough energy to pry open his eyes.

The stark white of the walls and smells confirmed he was in a hospital. Blinking several times he realized there was someone in the room with him. Tilting his head fractionally, he saw Peter hunched over a laptop, clicking industriously. Problem was even moving his head only a few millimeters set his surroundings into a tilting whirl and his head was pounding.

He snapped his eyes closed and prayed his stomach wouldn't completely rebel. He must have made a sound because a breath or two later Peter was at his side. "Neal?" He felt a hand on his wrist.

"...ughnnn..."

"Neal, I'm calling the nurse." The hand squeezed his wrist lightly. "Just hang on for a minute or two..."

He tried to relax and take deep breaths as he fought the rising tide of nausea. But with his head aching abominably and the world whirling even with his eyes closed, it was practically a foregone conclusion. "...'mm... sih..." Fortunately the nurse came in just as he turned his head to the side and he felt the cool plastic bowl as he started to retch.

He brought up what little was in his stomach and continued to dry heave for several long minutes. When the episode was over, he felt like a limp dishrag and everything hurt - from his toes to the hair on the top of his head. He was pretty certain he would have felt better if he was dead.

They must have given him something for the pain and the persistent nausea because abruptly he felt lighter. The pain in his side seemed far removed and his stomach finally settled. "Mr. Caffrey? You still with us?"

"-uhh..." He swallowed and cracked his eye lids. The dark shape in front him resolved into the concerned face of a dark-haired woman.

"Good." She smiled at him. "I'm Doctor Frankin." Her smile was nice. "Do you remember what happened?"

By the time the doctor was satisfied, he was beyond exhausted. He remembered what happened with Striker and the whole operation to save Jones' friend, Jimmy Wilson. He was a bit vague on the details after Jones and the cavalry arrived but apparently that wasn't unexpected.

"Neal?" Opening one eye, he saw Peter watching him. "I'm going to head into the office - finish up the reports, make certain everyone is okay..." Peter leaned in close. "Is there anything you need right now? I'll be back later and bring something good to eat. The doc said you'd be on a bland diet for a few days and that some things were banned, but I can get you some of that homemade chicken soup from the deli you like." His wrist was squeezed. "Okay?"

"'kay..." He just couldn't hold his eyes open any longer. "Thanks..."

~0~

He pushed the tray and rolling table to the side. No way was he going to eat the lukewarm, bland and watery vegetable soup accompanied by the less than appetizing chicken salad sandwich on dry whole wheat bread. It wasn't that he didn't like vegetable soup or even chicken salad; it was that the hospital food wasn't worthy of its name. If Peter, El and even June hadn't been in with care packages of homemade soup and sandwiches since Thursday dinner, Neal was pretty certain he would've gone without rather than to force down what the hospital offered. He managed the shredded wheat cereal or oatmeal offered to him for breakfast but the rest of the meals…

Neal glanced at his watch. He was scheduled to be released in a few hours after a morning of follow up tests and checks. Even though his blood work had been looking better for the last twenty-four hours, the doctor had hinted at wanting to keep him a little longer until perhaps Monday, but he had balked at that. He was feeling okay. Maybe not a hundred percent but he would definitely feel much better out of the hospital.

Bad enough it was Saturday and that Mozzie had been in the day before grousing and grouching over the postponed retrieval of the manifest from Chez Burke. But then upon learning that Neal would be staying at the Burke's home, at El's insistence as June was going to be out of town for several days, Moz had been positively gleeful over the ease and opportunities Neal would have in getting to the hidden safe and retrieving a copy of the manifest.

Problem was-

*rap-rap-rap-rap-rap-rap-rap*

"You still here?" Mozzie stuck his head in.

"Yep."

"Good." Neal lifted a sardonic eyebrow at that comment. "Well," Mozzie hurried on as he sat next to the bed, "I mean once you're at Chez Burke we'll have to be careful no one's listening."

"Moz, about that-" he began.

"What? Have plans changed? You _are_ going to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Suit?" His friend was frowning at him. "Right?"

"Not exactly-"

"What do you mean 'not exactly'?" Moz stared at him as if trying to read his thoughts.

"What I mean is-"

"Did June's travel plans change? So you'll be back at your place then?" Moz pushed his glassed up. "I mean that's still doable. We'll just have to wait until Friday when the Suit will be at his poker game and I-"

"Moz-"

"-can scrounge up tickets to some event to distract Mrs. Suit. I'll-"

"Mozzie!" Neal winced internally. The headache had become his constant companion since he first woke up in the hospital and it spiked whenever there were bright lights or loud noises, including raised voices, even his own. At least Moz had stopped talking to frown and stare at him. "No, June's plans have not changed. Yes, I will be staying for the next week to ten days with Peter and El as planned. Oh and I'm feeling much better. Thanks for asking."

"What?" Moz looked confused. "I mean I'm glad you're feeling better, but what's the problem…?" He trailed off and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Neal. "Tell me."

"I..." Guess there was no other way but just to say it. "I don't want to break into the safe while staying with Peter or any other time. I'm not ready to give up this life, Moz."

"What?" His friend looked thunderous. "I did all this for you, for us. It's the score of a lifetime! We'll be set for life once we get the treasure and ourselves the heck out of New York. You get a copy of that manifest, we know what to fence to finance the relocation and we're free and clear!"

"But-"

"We'll buy our own island and be sipping Mai Tais on a white sand beach with nothing to worry about except getting the right SPF sunblock."

"What if that's not what I want?"

"Oh, right," Mozzie mocked. "Don't tell me you'd rather spend the next year and a half on a two-mile leash while the Suit holds the key. As wonderful as June and your digs and clothes," he waved generally towards the city, "and all this are - it isn't _you_. It's Neal Caffrey and you've got to let it go!"

"But what if I don't want to spend the rest of my life on a tropical beach we own?"

"So in six months, maybe a year we'll sell it and come back." Moz sounded dismissive.

"No, Moz," he corrected, "you'll come back. Once I do this there is no turning back. New York will be dead to Neal Caffrey…. Neal Caffrey will be dead." Moz opened his mouth to interrupt, but Neal continued, "You can't believe for one moment that Peter would ever let this go! The man was relentless before when he worked to arrest me and if he thinks I've been playing him all this time, he's going to be even worse!"

"So you'll just have to be even more careful to stay away from New York and the clutches of the FBI." Moz flicked a hand. "'Sides you have that perfect passport and I.D. for Victor Munroe that no one but us knows about and-"

"Not quite."

"What?" Mozzie moved closer to the bed. "Who knows about it?" With his near genius intellect, he made a lightning fast jump to the most logical conclusion. "Sara? You showed the Suit-Wannabe? How could-"

"I didn't show or tell her anything." Neal closed his eyes momentarily and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was killing him. "She found it and questioned me about it." He looked at his friend. "I told her it was all a part of being an FBI CI, ready to go undercover at moment's notice." He shrugged and leaned back on the bed, suddenly exhausted. "I think she bought it."

"Well, that's good then." Moz paced to the window and back. "You can still get out of the country on the I.D. and-"

"But she'll remember it and eventually Peter will find out."

"So you'll be long gone by then." The little man waved his hands for emphasis. "We'll just use our new found wealth to buy you another perfect identity and then-"

"No." He sat up again. "No."

"No?" Mozzie blinked at him. "NO?" Clearly, he did not believe Neal knew what he was doing or saying. "I did this for you! So you could have the life you've always dreamed of with wealth, luxury and comfort, with-"

"But what if my dreams have changed, Moz?" His head was going to explode. Obviously having an argument while recovering from superwarfarin poisoning was not a great idea. "What if-" He cradled his head hoping the throbbing would die down soon. "What if... I want the fairy tale with the shining knight?"

"No, Neal." He cracked an eyelid and saw Moz standing by the door. "Being with the Suit, working with the Suit and Suit minions has obviously clouded your thinking and your judgment if you think this mundane life is what you want. Next thing you know, you'll want to turn the treasure over to the Suit and company."

"Moz-"

"I'll see ya around, Caffrey." Mozzie turned to leave and paused to looked back. "Don't be surprised if live-feed from the site goes dead." And the door closed behind him.

"Fuck." This was not what he'd wanted to happen. Neal pushed himself up follow his friend. Already dressed in casual clothes, he had been more than ready for discharge so no worries about hospital gowns or robes. He swung his legs over the side and was surprised to see a several large splats of blood on the knees of his grey sweatpants and on the floor next to his shoes as he made to stand; the floor that was rushing up to meet him.

~0~

"Honey, time to go." He heard El's voice from below.

"I know. I know." After spending the morning getting the guest room set up and grocery shopping with his wife in preparation for Neal to spend the coming week with them, he had taken a moment to grab a quick shower and change. "He'll still be there if I'm a few minutes late." He patted his pockets - wallet, keys, cellphone - and hurried down the stairs. "Hey, Hon." He gave her a quick peck on the lips and headed for the front door.

His hand was on the doorknob when his phone rang. "Neal, I'm on my way." He frowned when he had read the caller I.D. as Bellevue Hospital Center.

"Agent Burke?" He stopped in the open doorway.

"Yeah, who is this?" He saw El frowning at him.

"This Dr. Leicester, I'm covering Dr. Frankin's patients for the weekend-"

"What's wrong? Did something happen to Neal?" El moved closer as he stepped out of the doorway and closed it.

"Well, there's been a small set back."

"What? What happened?"

"After the tests this morning, he was all set to be discharged sometime after lunch. Unfortunately, he was discovered collapsed on the floor next to his bed a short time ago. There was quite a bit of blood, but we've determined it was a simple nosebleed. Apparently, he started bleeding and he got dizzy and passed out." He heard the doctor sigh. "He's awake and coherent and still pushing to be released. But really, Agent Burke, I feel it is advisable that Mr. Caffrey spend at least another day under observation."

"Sounds reasonable to me." El was standing close enough to have heard what the doctor explained and she nodded in agreement.

"Problem is Mr. Caffrey is threatening to sign himself out AMA."

~0~

Peter heard the voices when he got off the elevator. "I said I'm fine and I said I'm leaving." Apparently, Neal was very determined to leave.

"But the doctor-" He pushed the door fully open and found Neal sitting on the edge of his bed apparently resisting the efforts of the very pretty nurse who was trying to help him change his clothes.

"I don't give a damn what the doctor said." There was a set of clean hospital pajamas on the bed next to him since his t-shirt and pants were stained with dark red splotches. "I'm not staying here another night!" The ex-con pushed up but it was obvious he was a little wobbly when he tried to stand.

"Neal?" Peter stepped in and pushed his C.I. back down on the bed. "What's going on? Dr. Leicester called and said you're threatening to sign yourself out AMA."

"You were here yesterday." Neal frowned at him and then at the nurse. "Dr. Frankin said after the tests and checks this morning I could get the hell out of here."

"But they said you were bleeding and passed out-"

"It was a nosebleed!" Neal's eyes flashed. "And I just stood up too fast and had a headrush. They checked me out and I'm fine!" He rubbed his forehead. "Look, I can't rest here! They keep waking me up to check my blood pressure and take blood samples. And the food is practically inedible. It's a wonder patients don't die of malnutrition it's so bad. And I just want to get the hell out of here."

At that moment, Dr. Leicester joined them.

~0~

In the end, they compromised. Neal finally agreed to spend the night and as long as he was okay he would be released first thing in the morning. Sunday discharges weren't the norm, but with insurance companies pushing for fast discharge of patients it was becoming more and more common. El arrived with take-out bags from a nearby Indian restaurant.

Even though Saravanaa Bhavan had a vegetarian menu, Peter had quickly discovered he enjoyed whatever El would order for them when they'd tried it in the past. Even if he had no clue what the names of the dishes were, he always found himself pleasantly full. And the desserts they offered, his mouth watered over the specialty ice creams and other sweets. Fortunately Neal enjoyed the food and it set him in a better mood after they shared dinner in his room.

They left a short while later. Neal valiantly tried to stifle his yawns and Peter promised to return promptly in the morning. It was still relatively early but the exhaustion that had dogged him since Thursday was back in force. He settled under the covers and checked his phone. No messages. No texts.

~el fin~


End file.
